I find it amazing how oftentimes, without even intentionally
prompting it to do so, the human mind is capable of conjuring up memories from
years ago as vivid as though they happened yesterday. This was the case
yesterday when during my daily drive home from work I was struck with a memory
from my grade school years that put a huge smile on my face. Fortunately, this
memory did not involve getting in trouble nor did it end up with my foot being
stuck in a wall. This memory was actually of my famed basketball career at St
Mary’s grade school and the first game I remember my Grandpa Hopfinger coming
to see me play.
First of all, I need state something that if you have read
any of my previous writings should by now be abundantly clear: I am not an
athlete. Sure, I always give it my all and try to have fun regardless of the outcome,
but I have never had that competitive drive or the athleticism to back that
drive up even if I had it.
But I always tried.
Due to the fact that I came from a very small school and
there weren’t enough boys in the fifth grade to field a team and have players
on the bench, when I was in fourth grade they allowed us to try out for the
basketball team a year early. Now, when I say “try out” I mean that if your
parents were willing to pay the money to buy the required Converse hi-tops then
you were basically on the team. Seeing
as though my parents were, in fact, willing to buy these shoes I was given a
spot on this team. My spot, however, was at the end of the bench. The very end
of the bench. The end of the bench so far away from the coach that if he wanted
me to go into the game he’d have to get up from his seat the day before just to
tell me in time. To put it more clearly, I was never going to play.
Or so I thought.
As I stated before, this happened years ago so the
surrounding details are pretty hazy. I don’t remember if I’d played before this
day (I don’t think so) and I don’t remember why my Grandpa was at this
particular game especially due to the fact that I never actually got into the
game. Nor do I remember or if I’d even considered prior to this moment if
maybe, just maybe, I was only put in
this particular game due to the fact that my Grandpa was there and, being that
it was a small school, Coach Voss figured “what the hell”. All I know is that
sometime late in the game on this Saturday afternoon in the miniscule gym at St
Mary’s Grade School in Belleville, IL my coach screamed at me to get ready to
check into the game.
At first, I had to make sure he was really talking to me and
not the one- legged blind kid with no arms that was seated next to me who
always seemed to get the call before I did. After determining that the Coach
was, in fact, passing over that kid and looking to me I immediately ran over,
ever so gracefully, to the scorer’s table to check in. I can still remember the look on the kid’s
face that I was going in to replace. There was shock, there was surprise, there
was “are you freaking kidding me? Hopfinger?” I’m pretty sure he even trotted
back onto the court thinking it was all a sort of joke on him but the coach
quickly assured him that it was real and that I was going in to replace him.
If you’ve ever seen the movie “Rudy” I’d like to tell you
right now how similar my experience in getting into the game is with Rudy’s
experience. In the movie, the fans, cheerleaders, and players all chanted for
Rudy to get into the game. When the coach finally gave in and sent him in he
was rewarded with Rudy making a great defensive play and the entire crowd going
nuts. It was magical. It was touching. It was Hollywood.
Unfortunately, the only similarity between my experience and
Rudy’s experience is that we both got into the game. Rather than chant my name
I think most people took the small break in play as I entered the game as an
opportunity to either use the bathroom or go to the concession stand. Rather than
chant my name the girls and other players more than likely took the opportunity
to make fun of my hairless legs which consisted of 75% of my body’s total
height. There was no magic. There was no Hollywood script. But there was
Grandpa Hopfinger and he was cheering for me with a rousing “Come on Scotty!!”
And for those not lucky enough to have met him, the “O” in
Scotty is a long “O”.
The facts surrounding the next series of events escape me. I
don’t know if we were winning or losing or if the game was close or a blowout.
All I know is that at some point shortly after I entered the game and while we
were on defense I, Scott “Captain Klutz” Hopfinger, ended up with the ball.
This is where the memory gets extremely vivid. I can still
see the court. I can still smell the sweat and the gym and the locker room. If I try hard enough I can still see the
direct path I had to the basket on the other side of the gym. I still know
where my grandpa sat at that game and, although I wasn’t looking at him during
this sequence, I know that he was on the opposite side of the backboard than
the right-handed side that I would be dribbling towards. It’s as if it just
happened.
Now, I had a decision to make at that time. I didn’t know it
then, but I had a decision. I could have passed the ball to one of our guards
who were better dribblers/shooters/athletes than I was. I could have called
timeout because I probably shouldn’t have been allowed to touch the ball in the
first place. I also could have just shot from there as the gym was so small
that the half court line practically butted up against what would eventually
become the three point line and with a good heave I could probably have come
pretty close to making it.
But instead, I chose to dribble.
Yes, I dribbled. I dribbled that ball straight down the
court all the way to basket. And somewhere along the way I made the decision
that I was not going to stop until I got to that basket and scored. It didn’t
matter that me dribbling was basically a means of self-defense as I tried to make sure the ball didn’t bounce off the
floor and crack me in the chin before throwing it back down again and repeating
the process over and over. It didn’t matter that Mike Shields, who was a much
better player and a year older, had already run down the court and was waiting
on the block underneath the basket with both hands outstretched practically
pleading with me to pass it to him. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. I had
the ball and I was going to score.
As I approached the basket there was nothing in my way.
There was no one guarding me and the only thing that was keeping that ball from
being layed-up and into the basket was me and my basketball ability. I picked
up my dribble, transitioned the ball to my right hand, raised my right arm and
left leg simultaneously with such grace that it could be used as an instructional
video for beginners as the 100% proper way to approach a lay-up. I was home
free.
The only problem I had was that I had a little bit of
momentum from my mad dash down the court that I had never really encountered in
practice and, as a result, had no clue how to handle. So, as I released the ball from my hand in the
hopes that I would score, the laws of physics had an entirely different idea
and the ball hit off the backboard with such force that it bounced directly
back out to the top of the key. I wasn’t even close.
And I never touched the ball in the game again.
But this is not a sad story. Sure, I had my shot – literally
– and I failed, but it wouldn’t be the first or the last time that happened. Stuff like that doesn’t bother me. Regrets are
for pessimists. If I chose to stew over everything that didn’t go my way I’d be
a very bitter person. Instead, I choose to look at what I learned from the
situation and, as long as I can learn something about myself or my life from
that event, I consider it part of life’s bumps and bruises and simply move on
to the next thing. I’m guessing that I
may have been a little distraught at the time, but I’m sure the feeling quickly
passed the second I left that gym. My brain just works that way.
So, you may ask, what did I learn from this? Did I learn
that basketball wasn’t for me? Nope, I kept playing throughout grade school and
had a ton of fun doing so until I got to high school where there were more
capable and competitive people to form the team. Did I learn to be more careful
when it comes to “taking your shot”? Heck no. I’ve taken and missed more “shots”
in my life than I can even recall. Shit happens.
The thing I take away from this was that even though there
was very little chance of me getting into that game or ANY game for that
matter, my grandpa was there to watch me. He was there to support me and cheer
me on and he would have been proud of me no matter what I did with that ball. I
could have made the basket or I could have tripped over my shoelaces on my way
there. It didn’t matter. Either way, I
won simply because he was there and was going to cheer me on without judgement
and with a rousing “Way to go, Scotty”.
And that’s Scotty with a long “O”.
Thanks for reading
